When War Paint realized what had happened, she sought
out Camilla and spoke with great affection:

“Poor little child! Tell me how all this
happened.”

Camilla’s eyes were red from weeping.

“He lied to me! He lied! He came to
the ranch and he told me, ’Camilla, I came just
to get you. Do you want to go away with me?’
You can be sure I wanted to go with him; when it comes
to loving, I adore him. Yes, I adore him.
Look how thin I’ve grown just pin-ing away
for him. Mornings I used to loathe to grind corn,
Mamma would call me to eat, and anything I put in
my mouth had no taste at all.”

Once more she burst into tears, stuffing the corner
of her apron into her mouth to drown her sobs.

“Look here, I’ll help you out of this
mess. Don’t be silly, child, don’t
cry. Don’t think about the dude any more!
Honest to God, he’s not worth it. You surely
know his game, dear? . . . That’s the only
reason why the General stands for him. What a
goose! . . . All right, you want to go back home?”

“The Holy Virgin protect me. My mother
would beat me to death!”

“She’ll do nothing of the sort. You
and I can fix things. Listen! The soldiers
are leaving any moment now. When Demetrio tells
you to get ready, you tell him you feel pains all
over your body as though someone had hit you; then
you lie down and start yawning and shivering.
Then put your hand on your forehead and say, ’I’m
burning up with fever.’ I’ll tell
Demetrio to leave us both here, that I’ll stay
to take care of you, that as soon as you’re
feeling all right again, we’ll catch up with
them. But instead of that, I’ll see that
you get home safe and sound.”

VIII

The sun had set, the town was lost in the drab mel-ancholy
of its ancient streets amid the frightened silence
of its inhabitants, who had retired very early, when
Luis Cervantes reached Primitivo’s general store,
his arrival interrupting a party that promised great
doings.

Demetrio was engaged in getting drunk with his old
comrades. The entire space before the bar was
occupied. War Paint and Blondie had tied up their
horses outside; but the other officers had stormed
in brutally, horses and all. Embroidered hats
with enormous and concave brims bobbed up and down
everywhere. The horses wheeled about, prancing;
tossing their restive heads; their fine breed showing
in their black eyes, their small ears and dilating
nostrils. Over the infernal din of the drunk-ards,
the heavy breathing of the horses, the stamp of their
hoofs on the tiled floor, and occasionally a quick,
nervous whinny rang out.

A trivial episode was being commented upon when Luis
Cervantes came in. A man, dressed in civilian
clothes, with a round, black, bloody hole in his fore-head,
lay stretched out in the middle of the street, his
mouth gaping. Opinion was at first divided but
finally all concurred with Blondie’s sound reasoning.
The poor dead devil lying out there was the church
sexton. . . . But what an idiot! His own
fault, of course! Who in the name of hell could
be so foolish as to dress like a city dude, with trousers,
coat, cap, and all? Pancracio simply could not
bear the sight of a city man in front of him!
And that was that!